Heroes
by chasingdragondreams
Summary: When we walk, they roll the carpet out at our feet. And when we talk, they gather 'round in chairs on the street (cause we're the kings of imagining things). -excerpt from "The Long Haul" performed by late 80's Australian post punk band, NO. [gift-fic for the author whose anti-cliché challenge was cancelled due to lack of interest, characters will be added as they appear]


**A/N: ****In all ten years of attending public school at taxpayers' expense, school has never been cancelled for freezing temperatures. ****That might be because I live in the American Southwest, but I'd like to think of it as an 'act of God' ;)**

******Since my school district cancelled school for 'severe weather reasons' today, I decided to celebrate by using my pet turtle as a paperweight for the large pile of homework that has accrued itself on my desk. And watch Elementary, if that reference didn't hit you in the face.**

******Cheerfully freezing circumstances aside, I was able to spend some time in the 39 Clues archive and noticed an 'Anti-Cliché Contest' that had been cancelled due to lack of interest. A couple stories and user profiles later, I found a delightfully depressing fic about Sinead, brownies, and her undying regret. **

******This is the moment when the *magical* glowing light descends, filing me with the insight of the literary masters. **

******(Spoiler, it didn't happen). **

******But I did wonder, how many fics have I contributed to the cliché storm? Did I actually characterise Sinead correctly, or was I just searching for a name to slap onto the mountain of angst/humor/romance?  
**

******(Answer: I don't really know).**

**Clichés used in this chapter: handwritten notes, flowers with meanings, hospital beds, and things that come in threes.**

* * *

**Disclaimer: I don't own the 39 Clues or anything recognisable!**

**For the author whose [outdated] contest didn't garner enough interest. **

* * *

one:  
what heroes are for

.

_"'Then what is magic for?" Prince Lír demanded wildly.  
'What use is wizardry if it cannot save a unicorn?'  
_  
_He gripped the magician's shoulder hard, to keep from falling.  
Schmedrick did not turn his head._

_With a touch of sad mockery in his voice, he said,  
'That's what heroes are for.'"_  
_― Peter S. Beagle, "The Last Unicorn"_

.

_Sorry?_

For what?

If you're going to backstab the powerful organisation your family has been in for centuries, don't you think a little conviction is in order? It's not like in the spy novels, where the children are made out to be sword-swinging, pistol-waving five-year-olds who grew up teething on bombs.

The hate isn't brainwashed into you, it's just lurking.

By the time you outgrow princesses and their musty towers, you realise that the hate has been there forever, waiting for you to understand. They're the _bad guys_, of course they're the bad guys, what else would they be?_  
_

Couldn't remember your spelling words? Fell off of the swing at the park?

Blame it on those idiot Tomas.

And it's so easy, looking down on the people you never see. Your parents smile with pride, because they notice your sudden interest. They tell all of the old stories again, with so much more _fire_. And you begin to notice the string of never-ending dinner parties contain guests who are wonderful, brilliant, geniuses.

And you want that for yourself.

* * *

_The concrete was pummelled into dust by the explosion, spattering your clothes with what looks like grey matter. _

_"Are you happy now?" your parents ask heavily, like they always have. Disappointed, wishing you had done better. "Oh, sweetie," your mother sighs, patting you on the head. "I thought you had more brains than that, running straight into the explosion. And look what happened to your brothers..."_

_The words aren't meant to be cutting, but the fact that your brothers are still in the intensive care units certainly puts things into perspective. _

_William McIntyre, the executor of Grace's will, comes to visit. He wrings his hands, telling you that the signature is binding and offers you the million dollars again. _

_You say no, because it's useless._

_But if you win, something tells you__ it will be all. better._

* * *

two: of monsters and men

The first time the blond man darkens her doorstep, she is eating tasteless hospital food. Lime Jell-o, colourless meat and a roll.

"My name is Dr. Casper," he says brightly, waving his name-tag around. "Casper with an 's', not a 'z'. I'm your scheduled doctor for today! If you'd like to request another roll, milk carton or smuggled cocaine, don't hesitate to ask!"

She stares at him in disgust, wondering how something so stupid could get past the security. Then she notices the empty syringe in the rubbish bin.

"That's a biohazard, you know," she mutters, medical training coming to mind. "Needles are supposed to be broken against blunt surfaces such as tables, then disposed of properly. You can't just throw them wherever you please."

He smirks.

"But this way is so much fun for the janitors."

* * *

three: sorry for your loss

It's a quiet two weeks before Wyoming talks his way into her hospital room again. He pretends to fuss with the pillows, reading the sympathy cards in a cheerfully despondent voice.

She rolls over in the bed, wondering if death by suffocation would be better than this.

The Vesper laughs at the generic messages and wilting irises. "Faith and resurrection? You're not dead yet," he snorts. "Didn't think Cahills actually believed in life after death, with all the red in _their_ ledgers."

"Is that an Avengers reference, or are you just being philosophical?"

"I liked the Russian. She looked like you."

They are quiet again.

"Cheer up, Starling. I hear that aloe does wonders for the burns."

* * *

The last time he makes a surprise reappearance is upon her release from the hospital, in the form of a dully coloured shrub. It hasn't been well-cared for, considering the drooping nature of its many green appendages.

She thinks back to his apparent amusement with the botanical: _medicinal purposes, symbolises superstition, grief. _

There is an letter tucked inside the arrangement (did he steal that as well?).

Her parents finally leave.

The envelope is reduced to shreds of paper.

_"Where to elect there is but one, / 'Tis Hobson's choice—take that, or none."_


End file.
